We hold breath, a collusion of the living,in the shadow-glow that opensour lenses - divine incest in graveyards.Your tesseract begins to flash with insightsthat we already knew, of cauldrons andmerely human scandal. Swans sing unfinished.I am afraid when they call from across the table,I fear the pen-knife chiaroscuro of longingthat colors all our pupils with devil's foodand the best mead in miles and worldsthat has been dead for years and tastesof all the living in darkened light thatwe want to think we do, but our breathcatches where our spheres dare overlap.Our home is transformed to the painting,even while we're somewhat in it, we soundwith joy for fear and the dolor of mirth.I miss you, green greys, and need youto have died to show me this panacea.Catch me when I'm born, dinner guests.I'll be on that side of the gateway beforetoo many more spoke-days have passed us hungry.​